Topeka
by HaraKumiko
Summary: Finas couldn't really remember his life past undeath. But that was alright, because up until that point, there was little worth remembering. A fan's speculation on exactly how Finas and Casimiro met, and what the exact terms of their relationship are.
1. Years of Goodbyes

A/N: I... promise I'm not giving up on Playing With Danger; I just got this little project into my head, and want to work on this. So, this is basically my little speculation on the mysterious circumstances of Casimiro and Finas; who they are, where they came from, how they met, and why they stick together. There are going to be three to four chapters, and will contain violence, blood, some language... actually, you know what? Let's just say I rated this because of Casimiro and leave it at that. That guy's warning enough.  
EDIT: HAHAAH, LORE FAIL. Looking through Word of God facts, I found out that Finas didn't have any kids. I could've sworn he said he did have a kid, which is why I added that, but it's been fixed.

* * *

Finas had been a simple family man a good fifty years ago; he'd had a beautiful, amazing wife named Rianne, and they had lived in a little house in Bristol. He'd been... a mechanic, or something along those lines; details were a bit fuzzy these days.

It had been a warm autumn night when he was sired by a client of his company. Having called enough times for the employees to know and call her by first name, it was understandably surprising when that sweet old Russian immigrant tossed him into a wall so forcefully that it buckled under his weight and almost drained him of blood before feeding him some of her own. He could just barely recall how wrong it had tasted back then, like an overcooked attempt at making caramel.  
He'd woken up, cold and dazed, as she was coaxing a large greyhound down the stairs and into what could only be the basement. She looked over at him when he gave a quiet groan, and smiled in a disturbingly motherly way. "When strongk enough, you drink," she said coaxingly, yanking on the dog's leash and not even blinking as the animal snarled and snapped its jaws at her.  
He couldn't, refused throughout the first day, and held back from simply tearing its throat out as it relentlessly lunged and snapped at him, drawing blood from his arm when he got too close. Eventually, the fatigue of the rising sun washed over the both of them, and he slept, curled in a corner far away from his roommate. At the next nightfall, he woke to footsteps coming down the stairs, and he managed to push himself up so that his back was pressed to the cold, brick wall when she looked him over, taking in his bloodshot eyes and unintelligible attempts at speaking. "You are a strong one," she mused, gently taking his arm and pulling him towards the dog. It was curled up, asleep, but still growled as they approached. "Why I made you."  
He managed to croak out, dryly, "I'm honored."  
She chuckled, releasing him when she was sure he could stand on his own and gesturing to the animal. "Is alright."  
He wanted to protest some more, to pull away. But, God, he was so hungry, and so weak, he couldn't help but drop to his knees and drink until he couldn't taste any more blood on his tongue. Immense guilt ran through him as soon as his head had cleared, and he crawled backwards until a good amount of distance was between him and the dog. The crone kneeled down and brushed hair from his eyes. "Good. Gets easier."  
He wiped crimson from the corner of his mouth, never taking his eyes off of the corpse he'd made, laid out in front of him. "Please be right," he whispered.

She taught him everything he needed to know about his new life, even though most was common knowledge; things like crosses, sunlight, and stakes were to be avoided, although the last thing could be easily replaced by anything that could stab through his chest and destroy his heart. Vampires were loners by nature, usually only subjecting themselves to castes and clans, but otherwise traveling alone; a good policy, since what was the point of living forever if you could look back on nothing but heartbreak and pain?  
Throughout the next few days, she fed him animals, which he only drank from after much assurance that they were strays. And she was right; it did get a lot easier, especially since he started viewing it like he was a regular person hunting deer.  
At the beginning of the next week, she took him hunting for the first time. It was nerve-wracking, to say the least, since he had to look completely inconspicuous while trying to decide whose life would be forfeit. He eventually had his first taste of human blood from a con artist of a homeless man, in a dark alley. She nodded at him approvingly when he emerged from the darkness, drawing his sleeve over his mouth nonchalantly. And after that night, he actually started to feel alive - well, as alive as an undead creature could feel.

He had been washing the very few dishes the both of them dirtied when he felt it. A brief flash of white before his eyes, and something snapping in his chest, and he somehow knew that she was gone.  
He wasn't really surprised, actually; she had mentioned that vampire hunters had been chasing her for quite some time, and that she couldn't outrun them forever. He set down the now-clean plate and sighed, offering only a second of grievance before turning off the water, grabbing his long, navy blue coat that was draped over the back of a chair and exiting through the back door, leaving everything as it was. He didn't lock the doors, he didn't drain the sink... he just let it be, never looking back.

Rianne was sitting on their bed, eyes red with tired tears as she ran her thumb against the glass that separated her from the picture of him, the one of the only things she had left of him. He knew that because he was watching her from the tree just outside their bedroom window, pressed against the bark for camouflage. He couldn't let her see him yet; it'd be hard to explain why he'd been missing for nearly two weeks and how he'd gotten onto the highest branch of the oak tree without a ladder at the same time. So he watched and waited for an opening.  
The second she turned away to go to her vanity mirror, he jumped over to the ledge and carefully climbed through the window, making no sound and feeling only a fraction of comfort at the familiar feel of their shaggy, beige-colored carpet under his boots. He turned to face her back as she reached down into a drawer, and when she looked back up, her eyes locked onto his reflection - or, lack thereof. All she saw was a pile of clothing in the vague shape of a man. She screamed, jolting upwards and spinning around to face him.  
He met her gaze evenly, watching her fear morph into confusion. "Finas?" she whispered.  
"Hello, Rianne," Finas replied, taking a tentative step forward. When she didn't move, he took that as invitation to come even closer, close enough to touch her auburn hair. "I'm sorry I've been gone."  
Rianne just stared, her tense shoulders relaxing just slightly at his touch. "Where have you been?" She said, anger underlying her worry.  
He locked his eyes with her, tilting his head so that the light hit them at just the right angle for his newly-red irises to practically glow. "Occupied." He watched her hesitate; lift her hand to put over his and gasp, jerking away like she'd been shocked. "I came to say goodbye, actually."  
She shook her head, drawing him close and burying her head into his shoulder. "What happened to you?" she asked, voice muffled by his coat.  
"Remember Mrs. Biriukova?" She nodded, then stiffened as realization dawned on her. "You know that I love you." A pause, then he felt her nod again, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and feeling them shake with incoming tears.  
"I know." Everything in her voice said she understood, why he couldn't stay, why he came to her. But there was a good moment of time where neither of them said anything, and she just clung to him.  
But the longer she held, the more pronounced the scent of her blood became. Sweet, defined, just like her voice when she sang. He'd learn later that this scent was common with artists, especially those with the AB blood type. But he held her, holding back from punishing her for his own decision, and told her to tell the police that he was dead.  
She wouldn't let him go, and he was led to their king-sized bed, where he let her fall asleep in his arms for one last time.

Finas left Bristol, never going back and never planning to, and took up residence in a cheap flat in London, taking a job once as a technician. No one ever questioned why he only worked nights, why he was nearly unreachable during the day, or why he never made eye contact. He just simply was, never out of the ordinary.


	2. How Many Dead Men Do You See?

A/N: This one is a lot longer. I really like writing Casimiro for some reason. ALSO LOOK I'M ADDING PSUEDO-SEX TO THE WARNING, LOLOLOL.

Technically, this would be two parts, but the second part mainly focuses on them deciding to team up or whatever.

* * *

It was hard to fight back when his hands were cuffed together, but that didn't stop Casimiro from jerking his elbow back and into the officer's abdomen. "Let me go, you son of a bitch!" he screamed, kicking and flailing in an attempt to keep them away for long enough that he could make an escape. He lifted his arms to keep the nightstick blows from hitting his face, but one managed to connect with his back, and he fell to the ground, his knees meeting pavement for only a second before he was pulled back up and led towards the flashing lights of a police cruiser. "I didn't do anything!" He said, still struggling against the firm grip of the man leading him.  
"Shut up," the cop muttered, grabbing a handful of two-toned hair and pushing the young man into the cruiser, slamming the door.

Knowing there was nothing he could do, Casimiro silenced, watching the buildings of Milan pass through the tinted windows. He'd been arrested before; public intoxication, assault, things like that. But he had no idea what he'd done this time, and when he tried to ask, he received no answer. And so he waited.  
Even as he was tossed into a cell, there was no explanation as to why he was there. But all of the officers eyed him with even more disgust than usual; one even spat on his shoes as he passed, and he lunged at them in retaliation only to meet a knee to his stomach. He was pushed violently into his cell, coughing from the blow he'd received as the metallic sound of the bars sliding across the ground and locking echoed through the hall.  
As soon as he caught his breath he took a seat on the cot, frowning at the neon orange prison garb he'd been forced to change into. "Who decided on bright orange?" he wondered out loud, shaking out the sleeves. "It really doesn't go well with anyone's complexion."

Oh, the inappropriate things he wondered about.

In truth, it was just something to keep him from having a panic attack. What if they'd confused him with some sort of mass murderer and he was going to die tomorrow? Taking a deep breath, he smacked the side of his head. "Get a hold of it, Cas," he scolded. "It's probably a mistake. They'll clear it up, kiss your ass, and let you on your merry fucking way."  
The uneasy silence that usually followed talking to yourself was surprisingly short, interrupted by the quiet flapping of wings and squeaks. He looked up to see a bat flying around the ceiling, probably looking for a place to roost, as yells echoed from outside the barred windows. "Ah, hell. Just my luck." But as he stood up to shoo the bat back out the window, it took a dive, landed on the floor, and started shifting in to the figure of a man.  
He could only watch as the newcomer brushed off the shoulders of his long, navy blue coat and looked over at the window, then to the cell's inhabitant. And they stared at each other for a good few minutes before Casimiro opened his mouth, to either cry out in horror or let loose a string of curses; but he never got the chance, because the larger man immediately crossed over and clamped his hand so hard against Casimiro's mouth that he almost choked. "Shh," he whispered, red eyes flicking over to the window. "They're looking for me. I have no qualm with you. Now, I'm going to let you go. Stay quiet."  
Slowly, the large hand removed itself, and Casimiro jumped back, hissing quietly in heavily-accented English, "Well, you can't expect me to exactly be desensitized to a _bat_ turning into a goddamn _guy_ in the middle of my cell!"  
The larger man nodded, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets. "Understandable. I'll be leaving quite soon, though. I'd appreciate you not mentioning... what are you staring at?" He paused, watching Casimiro's eyes fall to the left corner of his mouth and widen slightly, before reaching up to touch it, blinking. "Oh. Ignore that."  
Muttering in Italian, Casimiro sat on his cot, turning his gaze to the floor with a sigh. "And now I've met a damn vampire."  
Giving a dry, quiet laugh, the other man looked back to the window, tilting his head to listen. "I seem to be in the clear. You never saw me, correct?" Casimiro nodded blandly. "Good." And with that, the stranger shifted back into a bat and fluttered out the window.  
As soon as he was gone, the young man flopped backwards on his bed and groaned loudly. Could this day get any more fucked up?

"We, the jury, find the defendant guilty of the rape and constructive manslaughter of Abelie Celentano."  
Casimiro could practically hear his heart stop in his ears, numbness filling his chest as he was dragged up to his feet and back to his cell. He could practically feel the poison of his death sentence filling his veins already, and once the guards had jeered and left him alone, his mind practically collapsed in on itself. He had a whole week left to live.  
The Celentanos were rivals to his family, all because of some weird thing that had happened God-knows how long ago, and were known for doing absolutely anything to defile the name of their enemies. No doubt that Abelie was relaxing by the pool, ready to come out and say, "Oh, I'm not dead!" just as soon as his body turned cold.  
Burying his head in his hands, he took a breath. So, this was it. His life was officially over. Twenty-six years old and dead. "_Merda_," he whispered, tugging at the orange-red section of his hair.

Those next two days were horrible; no special treatment for the dead man. No one believed him when he said he was innocent, assuming they didn't tune him out. Eventually, he just stopped talking altogether, turning his thoughts inward until he absolutely believed in the fact that he had to escape. It took him nearly two more days to finally come up with an idea that he was sure was risky.  
He got into a fight with a guard, stole a paper clip from is pocket, and carefully cut open his thumb after everyone else was asleep, drawing a sign on the inside ledge of his window. If that vampire he'd met earlier was still around, maybe he'd smell the sign and help out for a favor. Sure, it was a long shot, but he was pretty desperate.  
Imagine his surprise when a bat landed just outside his window. "Uh." He stood up from his position on the floor to examine it; it wasn't the same one, to his disappointment. While the first man had been of a blue-grey color and slightly bulkier, this one was slender and colored a beautiful ivory.  
"Is this your blood, _dolce cuore_?" it purred in a clearly feminine voice. Brown eyes blinked in response. "It smells decadent."  
Casimiro scratched his neck, smiling a bit sheepishly. "Uh, yeah. Listen, _signorina_. I need help. If you could help me get out of here, I'm sure I could make it up to you."  
She flapped her wings, contemplating. "What kind of favor?"  
"Anything you could ask for."  
He could practically see her grin, which was odd; he wasn't even sure bats could grin, but that wasn't the issue at that point. "I'll see what I can do~" And with that, she flew away.

Not even a few minutes later, he could hear screams and yells from the main office, and the sounds of bloodshed. He blanched slightly; he wasn't exactly thinking that murdering them all was the most discreet way of getting out, but any guilt disappeared when he saw her stroll to his cell, covered in blood and dressed in a pure white blouse and black slacks. Black hair fell in waves that ended just above her waist, and she twirled the keys around her bloodstained fingers. "You're even more handsome up close," she said with a smile as she started going through the keys to unlock his cell.  
"You too, _chica_," he said, smiling when she giggled. She looked to be around his age, physically, standing with a certain elegance once the lock clicked with the right key and the door slid open. He slid out immediately, brushing up to her with a suave smile. "Thank you."  
"Anything for a pretty boy." She drew her finger down his cheek and grabbed his hand, leading him down to the main office. "Might want to close your eyes."  
"Wait, can I grab my clothes, first? I'm not gonna go out there in this." He picked at his fluorescent orange garb.  
She stopped just before the blood-splattered doors. "Hm. I'm sure we could. After all, more fun for me if things get hectic."

They made it out of the station without incident, although he did have to watch as she tore the throat out of some poor officer. They ran, hand in hand, to the other side of town through alleys, avoiding the prying eyes of the late night stragglers, since it would probably be hard to explain what a blood-covered girl was doing with a guy whose was pictured in the papers as a literal lady-killer.  
They took a break in the alley of a movie theater, where he gasped for breath and wiped sweat from his brow. "Damn! Jailbreak is a workout. I'll need to do it more often."  
She chuckled, peeking out to the street from the corner of the building before making her way to him. "Glad I could help, _dolce cuore_. What's your name, anyway?"  
He looked up, swallowing and giving a little salute. "Casimiro Mancini."  
"Oh, Mancini! I believe our grandfathers knew each other." She crouched down before him, eyes flashing dangerously. "Nice to catch up on old times, right?"  
"I wouldn't know, my grandfather was insane." He laughed, leaning forward with his arms propped up on his knees. "How about you? I need a name to go with this pretty face."  
She smiled, her fangs clear over her dark lips. "Diamante Giordano."  
"Ah, Giordano. I think I've heard that name tossed around. Are beautiful women trademark to the family?" he asked, reaching out to brush her inky hair from her face.  
She purred in laughter.

The next thing he knew, he was pushed against the brick wall, his torso bare, with her straddling him, her lips playing against his neck. He pulled her closer, finding the ice cold feel of her body to be strangely intriguing rather than repelling. She arched her back and giggled, muttering, "Ready to return that favor?"  
"Whatever you want, _cucciola mia_," he replied, feeling the hair on his arms raise at the chilling laugh she gave.  
And that's when he felt her dig her fangs into the intersection of his shoulder and neck, squeezing her tightly with a surprised inhalation. _Damn_, that felt kind of good, with the massive amount of endorphins that were released, and his grip of her hair tightened.

After a few seconds, he realized something was wrong.

She wasn't letting go, applying more and more pressure until he could actually _feel_ it through the cloudy haze in his head. He let out a throaty, nervous chuckle, receiving a yank of his hair in return. Oh, God, he'd walked right into this one. She was going to drain him. He'd broken out of death row just to die in a dirty alleyway.  
Regardless, he started to fight, as futile as it was, kicking and trying to push her away until he felt her fangs dig deeper, seeing an explosion of white before his eyes.

And slowly, it all faded to black.


	3. Birds of a Feather

A/N: And now, the technical part two: in which Finas saves the day. Kind of. I'm not entirely sure if this is going to be the exact end of this fic, or if I'm going to add in an Adelaide chapter. Either way, I'm going to mark this as complete.

* * *

Casimiro awoke with a gasp, coughing and clutching his neck. A sickly sweet taste was on his tongue, but he was more concerned with the thumping pain in his head. Groaning, he put a hand to his head, cracking open an eye.  
That woman - Diamante, he remembered suddenly - was exchanging blows with a larger man, dressed in a blue sweater and dirty jeans. Blinking as things came into focus, he immediately recognized the other man as the vampire he'd met in his first night in jail. He was holding his own quite fine, red eyes practically glowing with animalistic rage as he raked his nails across her cheek, but he was slowing, letting Diamante get in a few hits.  
Looking around, Casimiro's eyes fell on a pipeline, with a piece so rusted that it was almost detached. Coughing, he reached over, falling onto his elbow, and broke off the pipe easily, with a strength he didn't know he had. Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet, tightened his grip on the pipe, and put it over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes and standing almost like a statue.  
The other man's eyes met his, and he nodded, putting all of his force into slamming Diamante backwards. "You should mind your own business, _chere_," she snarled, wiping blood from her mouth while she regained her balance. "You're just as stupid as your friend here."  
'Now,' he thought, swinging the piece of pipe as hard as he could. It connected solidly with the side of her head, throwing her violently to the wall where the other man quickly took over; he took her by the throat, drew his arm back, and thrust it right through her chest.  
Casimiro dropped the pipe, watching her twitch in permanent death. She dropped to the ground when the hand holding her let go, black hair hanging over her face. "When I said I heard the name... I meant that I heard about how Giordanos are selfish, manipulative bitches," he spat, adjusting on his feet before a wave of fatigue suddenly swept over him. He stumbled backwards, holding his head. "Whoa."  
In a flash, the other man had crossed over and grabbed onto his arm, holding him up. "Come here." He led Casimiro to Diamante's body, helping him sit down. "I don't know how the hell that happened, but you need more."  
Casimiro looked up questioningly before remembering the taste on his tongue, slowly lifting his hand to wipe at the corner of his mouth. Feeling something wet, he drew his hand back to see blood on his fingers, colored a strange, dark violet. "...what...?"  
The bulkier man knelt down next to him, giving the smallest smirk. "Did you bite her or something? I've heard of accidental siring, but never like this."  
"...I'm...?" And that's all he could say before the scent of Diamante's blood grew too alluring.

Closing the door to his little hideout, Finas sighed, resting his head against the wood. This entire week had been hectic; nearly getting caught trying to feed from that girl, helping a man who should have died, watching as that man _did_ die and came back just because he'd bit her tongue hard enough to draw blood... It was strange, to say the least.  
Behind him, he could hear the Italian man plop down on the worn sofa and let out a long sigh. "What a life," he said, appropriately summarizing the situation. Already, his skin had taken on a strange, grey hue on top of how deeply tanned it had been in life. After a pause, he let his head roll back against the back of the couch so that he could look at Finas. "Why'd you s- uh, _try_ to save me, anyway?"  
Finas turned the lock, slowly taking off his coat and scarf as he contemplated this. "Well, it was obvious she helped you escape. But getting you out of death row just to kill you anyway seemed despicable."  
A brown eyebrow quirked. "How'd you know I was -"  
"It was in the papers. Casimiro Mancini, right? Rape and murder."  
Casimiro snorted incredulously. "If you believe that. I was framed." He ran a hand through his two-toned hair, pausing before letting his hand fall to the bite marks in his neck. "Either way, I guess I'm officially a dead man."  
Finas regarded the other man quietly as he untied the blackout curtains over the windows. That really was all there was to it; he'd been sentenced to die, and he technically had. "You could technically consider yourself free," he mused, unfurling the scarf around his neck and tossing it onto a chair.  
"That's true. But either way, I should probably get out of Milan; too many people know my face." Casimiro slowly shrugged out of his jacket, as though unsure if he was allowed to. "What's your name, anyway? I keep thinking of you as 'that big guy'."  
Finas couldn't hide a chuckle. "I _am_ a bit bulky, I suppose... It's Finas." Turning to see an expression of mild approval, he quirked an eyebrow. "What?"  
"It fits. I was thinking something along the lines of Mark. Or Lionel." Rolling his shoulders, the Italian man yawned, sniffling. "Whoa. I can actually smell the ozone increasing."  
"It takes some getting used to. In either case, we should be going to sleep soon." Pointing towards an open doorway with one hand, Finas scratched his goatee with the other and said, "It might seem a bit cliche, but coffins really are the best way to go. There are some down that stairway."  
"_Some_?" Casimiro echoed, cocking his head to the side. "Just in case you have a kegger until the crack of dawn?"  
"You never know."  
There was a pause. "Wait. So, I can stay here?"  
Finas shrugged. "No where else you can go, right?" Tossing one more glance towards the curtained windows, he started towards the stairs. "Just don't get too used to being treated so kindly."

Oddly enough, Finas took up the same teaching position as the old woman who had turned him, eventually becoming so accustomed to the other man's company that they became inseparable. Quite granted that Casimiro was much more brazen than he, and adapted so quickly to the vampire lifestyle that it was almost suspicious, their bond was incredibly strong for some strange reason, even though thoughts of parting ways were frequent when a simple hunt would go completely awry and they had to pack up for the next country.  
But even with his strange sense of humor and complete stubbornness, it was obvious that Casimiro felt the bond, too; even after a fight with a local gang where his eye was nearly ripped from its socket, he was more concerned by a stab wound Finas had received just above his heart, jokingly scolding him even as blood streamed down his cheek.

Their life as a duo of travelers was fairly unremarkable after that little stint... that was, until the day they met Adelaide.


End file.
